


Someone Says

by pyrimidine



Series: Music in Theater [2]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:40:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrimidine/pseuds/pyrimidine





	Someone Says

On Monday, there's a shamal and Ray complains about his shit coming out grainy.

On Tuesday, they get shot at.

On Wednesday, Lilley almost backs over Garza and there's a brief scuffle between the two of them.

On Thursday, Brad hears some ludicrous story about the LT rapping with Q-Tip.

Somehow, that last one is the most surprising thing to happen all week.

 

*

 

It shouldn't matter as much as it seems to. Their lives pre-Iraq, what they were like back home; none of that has any bearing here. Brad couldn't give less of a shit that Ray's record of shooting beer cans is fourteen out of fourteen -- "because I couldn't drink any more than that, not because I fucking  _missed_  one" -- or that Poke could drive from Westwood to Echo Park in twenty minutes flat during rush hour (or so he claimed). But then, Brad remembers these facts whether he wants to or not, because it's kind of hard to ignore a bunch of loud-ass Marines retelling the same stories over and over again.

With Nate, though, it's different. 

With Nate, Brad has to fill in the blanks. It's like a game of connect-the-dots using only the small details that he notices, and it keeps him occupied during the downtime. The uneven bump right next to Nate's fingernail, the kind that forms after holding on to a pen for too long; the way he moves his jaw from side to side right after waking up, as if he's been clenching his teeth even in sleep. The way he almost always tilts his head to the right when he's listening, and to the left when he's exasperated.

Brad's always had a habit of seeking out whatever's hardest to find. The military honed that habit into a skill, but the instinct has remained the same. In this case, Brad's been hoarding facts about the LT like Ray hoards copies of Juggs. Technically, it's justified because it's important for team leaders to be able to read their COs. There's no reason why LT should be an exception to Brad's habits.

When Ray's face swoops in only a few inches away from Brad's, Brad doesn't even blink.

"Shit, Brad, you're being quieter than Helen fucking Keller. Are you actually buying into Rudy's campaign about 'introspective hour'?" Ray asks. "Now that's some faggotry. I can't believe you get down with the dharmas and the karmas and the shawarmas or what-the-fuck-ever."

"Shawarma is food, dawg," Poke sighs.

"It's like reading lines from a script," Brad says in a bored voice. As if on cue, the distant sound of Trombley yelling about dogs makes its way past the sand berms. "Goddamn Trombley, with his fucking canine baggage," he says, raising his voice even though Trombley probably won't hear.

"That psycho motherfucker has an agenda against all dogs. He carried that shit halfway around the world." Poke spits and shakes his head.

"He probably fucked one and it ran out on him. Got his poor little whiskey-tango heart broken by a terrier," Ray says dreamily. "Now he wanders the world, shooting dogs as eternal revenge."

Poke slides him a look. "Yo, what the fuck are you even on right now?"

"High on life, my man," Ray drawls. "And like, drugs and stuff," he adds dismissively.

Poke snorts. A couple minutes later, LT calls a team leader meeting over comms and Ray starts waxing poetic about being abandoned.

"Nothing your mother hasn't done to you time and time again," Poke calls over his shoulder as he and Brad dutifully trudge over to the command Humvee to join everyone else.

It's a snappy meeting, tinged with a take-no-shit vibe from the LT. Everyone else seems to pick up on it too, because only the most basic questions about their route are asked before the LT dismisses them. But Brad sticks around, watching idly as Nate folds up the map and tucks it back into his vest.

"Poke told me a story, sir."

When Nate finally looks up, his expression is mildly curious. It shifts to look a bit guarded when Brad says, "He heard it from Ray."

"Who got it from Stafford," Brad adds. Now Nate just looks exasperated. "Sir, shit rolls downhill and Marines gossip like old ladies at tea time. I thought you'd know that better than anyone else."

"You're right. I'm well familiar with that fact," Nate concedes. When Brad doesn't continue, Nate squints and tilts his head. "So, you heard a story, Sergeant. Any particular one? Or just the same good-night story dribble that your mother used to tell you over the phone every night when you were at BRC?"

Brad turns his body, facing Nate more fully. "No need to be jealous of my mother, sir. I know they didn't let you use phones at OCS to hear all about the new casserole recipe your hippie liberal boyfriend came up with, but I figured you were over that bitterness by now."

Nate smiles faintly, but it's also kind of distant. Brad drops the line of conversation without hesitation and goes back to the point.

"It was a story about you," Brad lets the pause sink in before saying, "and rap music."

Nate hums, an innocuous enough sound, but he also focuses over Brad's shoulder instead of meeting his eyes. Brad pretty much has all night to wait so he's prepared to stand there for as long as it takes, but then the radio inside the command Humvee crackles and hisses static as Encino Man's voice calls in for Two Actual.

"Saved by the fucking bell, sir," Brad says, and considers it a small victory when he catches a flash of teeth before Nate ducks into the Humvee for the radio.

 

*

 

Later, when they're almost finished digging in for the night, Brad sees that Gunny is having a pretty intense conversation with Rudy. Everyone else has their thumbs up each others asses, so Brad makes his way over to the LT's grave.

Nate's quietly watching the artillery light up the darkness. He looks okay, but that's not indicative of anything. Right now, Brad is so tired that he's close to puking up nothing but burnt coffee and MRE desserts. The lack of sleep piles up like train cars and hits him full force in intervals. His head feels heavy and weightless at the same time, and he see the artillery in the distance but can't seem to really process it as something that's actually happening.

He feels all this, but he knows he looks the same as ever.

"So," Brad says. "Rap music." The words fall heavily from his mouth, half on purpose and half from fatigue. He waits for Nate to tell him to fuck off, but Nate huffs a short, exhaled laugh in response. "You didn't really strike me as a purveyor of that particular genre," Brad pushes as he sits down.

"Why not? I enjoy words. I enjoy when people put words together in novel and interesting ways." Nate finally looks at Brad. "What kind of music fan did you categorize me as?"

Brad considers this. "Yanni. Maybe some pussy indie rock band. Mozart to help you set the curve in Economics 305. Actually, I think you started listening to rap because the repetitive beats were likely to make you the best marcher at OCS."

Nate smiles, so sudden and unabashed that Brad blinks. He wishes he could have somehow prepared for this, to anticipate it so that it'd last that much longer. "Cute theory, Brad, but I was the worst marcher in my class."

Brad files this away carefully. "Really, though, sir. Rap music."

"Are we at a point where I have to defend my likes and dislikes?" Nate has to crane his neck a little to meet Brad's eyes. He has a great pokerface when he wants. Brad can't pick apart the question, so he stays silent instead.

After a while, Nate starts again, his voice low, raspy: "When I wrote my thesis, I had my thank yous in my acknowledgments. Friends and family. My history 280B professor. My academic adviser. And GZA's  _Liquid Swords_."

"GZA from Wu-Tang Clan," he clarifies when Brad doesn't give any sign of recognition.

"Wu-Tang Clan," Brad repeats, just as a mortar explodes closer than anything else so far tonight. A few seconds later, warm dust blows into his face as the desert settles again.

"Don't knock it, Brad," Nate speaks again after a pause, like there hadn't been an interruption. "I'm pretty sure you only listen to music from before 1985."

Brad wants to ask who the hell told him that, but what he says is, "There's nothing wrong with the classics."

"Some music would be nice right now," Nate states, with no real transition, and more to himself than anything.

His eyes are almost stubbornly wide, betraying no sign of exhaustion. He could have had fifteen hours of sleep, or he could have had five minutes. That's one thing that the LT hides well -- on the surface at least. Brad's pretty fucking sure this conversation wouldn't be happening if they were back at Pendleton and not in theater.

"Make do, sir. You're the one who's usually in closest proximity to whatever Billboard Hot 100 bullshit that Stafford is spewing," Brad points out. "The urge to karaoke to the entire fucking platoon hasn't rubbed off on you yet? Where's your competitive warrior spirit?"

Nate shifts his head to give Brad a small smile. Brad can only look for a couple seconds before glancing down to rub some dirt off his rifle. "Any requests?" Nate asks.

"Whatever's your jam, sir."

"My jam," Nate says in a considering tone, and Brad can tell without even looking that Nate's still smiling.

"Weeks of dating, late night conversation," Nate breathes in a barely discernible rhythm, "In the crib heart racing, trying to be cool and patient."

At first it seems fucking hilarious. Brad didn't think he'd actually  _do_  it. He finds himself smiling without being able to pinpoint when exactly that had happened, but it fades quickly as Brad watches Nate stare up at the sky, the back of his head resting against the edge of the grave, mumbling the words softly like he's completely alone.

"What's the next line?" Brad asks. It's the closest he's come to completely shutting off his brain-to-mouth filter.

Nate looks down just then, turning his head and staring directly at Brad as he answers: "She touched on my eyelids, the room fell silent. She walked away, singing...," and then he trails off.

In the absence of Nate's voice, Brad can hear himself breathing. His eyes are already closed by the time Nate reaches out, skating his fingertips over Brad's cheekbone, his jawline, the curve of his chin -- all the angles that Brad would imagine to be the most prominent in this half-dark, made all the more sharper by their shitty diet.

"I think there's a rule about team leaders falling asleep in front of their platoon leaders," Nate says, bringing Brad out of it.

He blinks his eyes open and sees Nate looking at him amusedly, both hands clasped over his own chest, and then the whole thing automatically seems like a dream. Like when Brad would come home late at night, just drunk enough to be uncertain of whether the night's events had actually happened the way he remembered.

"Sir." Brad hefts himself up, forces his limbs to get moving.

When he's standing, he looks down to see Nate looking right back up at him. "Gotta get back to the children."

"Get some sleep, Brad."

Brad thinks he sees Nate's fingers twitch, but he hasn't slept in about thirty-six hours. Second-guessing himself is a waste of time, so he just nods and walks back to his own grave, letting mortar fire light the way.


End file.
